by Lowe, Sheila
“Please, brothers and sisters, you have nothing to fear. The first step to forgiveness is public confession of one’s sins. If there is anyone here who is afraid to expose himself or herself to the Lord God, let him or her leave now.”
Claudia turned around, curious to see whether anyone would accept Stedman’s invitation to leave. Three rows back, a man got to his feet. She could hear him muttering as he pushed his way to the aisle, caught the words Looney Tunes. He stalked out of the ballroom, letting the doors bang shut behind him. Several others rose, taking courage from his defection, and sheepishly trailed after him.
Harold Stedman leaned close to the microphone and said in a kind voice, “Go with God. We wish you no ill.”
“I don’t see him publicly confessing his sins,” Claudia whispered to Kelly, who just shrugged. She would like to have followed the fleeing runaways who hurried through the doors, but there was a certain fascination in staying to see what happened next. Like watching a ten-car pileup happen on the I-10, knowing you couldn’t stop it.
When the door had closed on the last one, Stedman waited a full minute, gazing over the audience. “Does anyone else fear to tell the truth? I sense that some of you are wavering in your faith. Please go now.”
A half dozen more got up and left. After the doors had closed once again, Harold repeated his question: “Is there anyone else who fears to tell the truth?” An expectant silence fell over the crowd, a collectively held breath. When he determined that no one else was going to get up and leave, he signaled to James Miller at the computer.
The ushers had gathered around the computer station and were rapidly sorting through the cards they had collected, selecting a few and handing them to Miller. Now Claudia understood why they needed the Elmo projector. The selected index cards could be placed directly on the sensor and projected onto the screen. Her heart raced a little as she hoped her card would not be selected.
The lights were dimmed again and one of the handwritten confessions was displayed on the screen. Before she began to read the words written on the index card, Claudia noted the smallish, neat copybook writing style; the conventional, not very confident small personal pronoun I. The handwriting told her that the person who had written the confession would not appreciate being put on public display. Reading the content, she felt mortified on the writer’s behalf.
“My most shameful event was when I felt sexually attracted to my brother’s wife. If my husband found out, he would immediately divorce me.”
The name “Karen Harrison” had been neatly signed at the bottom.
Harold Stedman read the statement aloud. “Sister Harrison, I want you to come up here to the podium. Come up here and stand with me. Come on now, don’t be afraid. Do you believe the Lord has mercy and forgives you? Where are you, sister?”
A frumpy woman around thirty in an unattractive pink-and-white-striped shirt and elastic-waist pants rose slowly from her seat. Even under the lowered lights, the flame of embarrassment could be seen burning her face.
Claudia wouldn’t have thought her the type to be hankering after someone’s wife. But who could say what went on in someone else’s heart? That was something handwriting certainly could not reveal.
With an usher waiting to escort her to the stage, Karen Harrison inched her way to the aisle, shoulders slumped, head hung low.
Dead woman walking.
This woman’s self-esteem must be the size of a peanut to allow herself to be so publicly humiliated. It seemed to Claudia that Harold Stedman was setting up those who had stayed in a way that would make it harder for them to leave. From what she knew of cult behavior, the more difficult and painful it was to join the group, the harder it was for a member to leave.
The TBL leader stepped away from the podium and went over to meet Karen Harrison as she approached the stage. She mounted the risers slowly, as if her feet were nailed to the steps. As she reached the top step, Stedman reached out and took her hands in his. He drew her the rest of the way to the stage with a smile that would melt butter. “There, now, sister. You’ve opened up your soul and the Lord God loves you for that. A wise man said, ‘The confession of evil works is the first beginning of good works.’ Do you repent of your evil works, sister?”
Karen Harrison nodded in silence and began to weep into her hands.
“This is starting to make me feel sick,” Kelly whispered. “Now I wish I hadn’t written what I did.”
Claudia leaned close to her ear. “It’s the beginning of breaking her down. That’s how these people operate.”
Stedman led the sobbing woman to a chair behind him on the stage and sat her down, already signaling James Miller to project the next confession before he returned to the podium.
“I’m ashamed of my mother. She’s disgustingly obese and I know people are laughing behind her back. I don’t want to be seen with her in public. That makes me feel guilty and a horrible person.”
Claudia studied the writing on the screen. The plain printed handwriting was poorly developed, which could mean that the writer was not educated or that he was emotionally stunted.
When Harold Stedman called for the writer of the statement, a man of middle age stood right up and marched up to the stage, his head held high. Letting everyone know by his demeanor that he wasn’t going to follow the humble lead of Karen Harrison.
As the man was welcomed to the stage and commended for his courage, Claudia found her attention wandering again. She was more interested in what the next handwriting might reveal. When it came, the sadness and guilt were evident in the downhill direction that the baseline took.
“I was driving drunk and killed a family. I will never forgive myself.”
A man with long blond hair tied back in a ponytail joined the others on stage. Now Karen Harrison could hide behind the two men, her own confession already forgotten in the abasement of those who followed.
A few more statements projected misery of varying strengths in black and white on the big screen. Claudia felt a wave of relief that neither hers nor Kelly’s were among those chosen for display.
Probably too mundane.
Small, intense-looking writing with many sharp angles. The writer meant what he said.
“I got angry with my son and told him that I hated him and wish he’d never been born.”
“I took a bunch of money from the company I used to work for. I know it’s wrong but I don’t care. They treated me like shit, and they deserved it.”
That one had large, circular forms with hooks in the o’s and a’s and claw forms on the lowercase d’s. “She might be ready to confess; she might even feel guilty, but she’s about as dishonest as they come,” Claudia said in an undertone.
Kelly cupped her hand beside her mouth. “He’d better not pick mine.”
“You and everyone else are thinking the same thing. Hey, there’s another one who’s lying through his teeth.”
The latest index card read:“I’m embarrassed to admit that my drinking and gambling is out of control.”
“Where’s the lie?”
“See where it says ‘I’m embarrassed.’ The I’m turns to the left and there’s a big space before he wrote embarrassed. He was conflicted about what he was writing because it’s a lie.”
Kelly gave her an admiring grin. “Claudia Rose, you are one dangerous woman.”
After gathering the small crowd of penitents on the stage Harold Stedman spoke for a few minutes about how they could join the Temple of Brighter Light and be saved from their sins. Finally, he said a prayer in closing.
After the final Amen, Magdalena turned to them, her eyes bright with enthusiasm. “So, what did you think? Isn’t Brother Stedman wonderful? I never get tired of hearing him speak.”
Claudia drew a mental comparison between Magda and Annabelle Giordano, the fourteen-year-old girl who had recently stayed at her home for a few months while her father was fighting for custody. Magda, who was in her late teens, seemed years younger than Annabelle.
There was something very 1950s about her manner and speech. Kelly’s “Stepfordized” comment came back to her. It seemed an apt description.
She started to reply to Magdalena, but was interrupted by the arrival of one of the TBL ushers. He looked right at Claudia. “Would you sisters come with me, please?”
Chapter 5
“Come with you where?” Kelly demanded. “And why should we?”
Claudia watched her with admiration. When she stepped into attorney mode, Kelly seemed to grow several inches taller.
The usher said, “Brother Stedman asked me to come and get you. He’s resting backstage. He’d like to meet you.”
“Why would he want to meet us?” Kelly asked again. It was a good question and Claudia asked herself what they might have done to inadvertently draw attention to themselves.
The usher gave an apologetic shrug. “I’m sorry, sister, I’m just the messenger. Brother will have to tell you himself.”
Seeing Magdalena’s eyes widen in surprise, Claudia realized that this invitation was not a common occurrence. It occurred to her that meeting Harold Stedman could be a very good thing. They had missed the opportunity to talk to James Miller, but now were being offered the possibility of learning something from the TBL leader himself.
Claudia and Kelly followed the usher onto the stage and behind the curtains. Harold Stedman was seated at a folding card table in his shirtsleeves, eyes closed, his face slack with exhaustion. He had opened his shirt collar and loosened the knot of his tie. At their approach he opened his eyes and immediately rose and came around the table, extending his hands to welcome them.
“Thank you so much for giving me a few moments of your time,” he said pleasantly. “Did you enjoy the program?”
“Your sermon was truly impressive, Mr. Stedman,” Claudia said, meaning it. “You had the audience eating out of your hand—excuse the cliché.”
He acknowledged the compliment with a nod. “There are so many seekers, the responsibility can sometimes be staggering. But, of course, our Heavenly Father always provides the strength to do what needs to be done.”
Kelly reached out a hand and pressed it to his lapel. “Oh, you’ve got what it takes.” Then she hardened her voice. “But did you have to humiliate those people that way?”
Claudia wanted to tell her to shut up. Alienating Harold Stedman by criticizing his methods wasn’t going to help them in their quest to find Kylie Powers. She wasn’t surprised when the look Stedman gave Kelly held a mild rebuke. “Humiliation is in the eye of the beholder, sister. Only those with a conscience can be humiliated, and having a conscience is a Godly virtue.”
Kelly gave him a playful smile. “Shoot, you’d get my attention by just threatening to tell my weight out loud.”
Claudia noted with interest that Stedman was not responding to Kelly the way most men did when she flirted with them. Instead, he chose to let her comment go and invited them to sit with him. Once they were settled, he turned his attention to Claudia.
“There was a reason why I wanted to speak with you. The fact is, something you said was overheard, and I . . . well, it got me curious enough to invite you back here.”
Claudia racked her brains, trying to remember whether she and Kelly had discussed Kylie or Erin since they had arrived. She didn’t think so. Besides, how could she have been overheard? She had spoken only in an undertone.
The hearing of a bat.
Kelly abandoned her flirtation and returned to lawyer mode, saying out loud what Claudia was thinking: “Do you have hidden microphones, Mr. Stedman? Where are they, under the seats?”
Stedman spread his hands as if to say you got me. “I apologize. Unfortunately, we’ve had a number of problems over the years from certain elements that would dearly love to see the Temple squashed out of existence. Our little group has been active for more than fifty years, but there are some people who insist on thinking that we’re up to something nefarious. They try continually to infiltrate and get the goods on us. Of course, there are no goods to get, but we do have to be careful. You understand, don’t you?”
Kelly refused to be distracted. “I assume you’ve heard of invasion of privacy?”
Stedman turned his keen blue eyes on her. From where Claudia sat, they seemed able to penetrate like a laser, through skin and bone to the heart and its motivation.
“I completely understand your concerns, sister,” he said. “But as you may know, in a public forum such as this evening’s, privacy is not protected.”
Kelly lifted her chin, preparing to argue. “That’s debatable. It’s clearly illegal to surreptitiously eavesdrop on someone’s private conversation.”
“That may be true when they have an expectation of privacy.” The lines around Stedman’s eyes creased as he broke into a smile. “You’ll have to trust me on this, my dear. I’ve discussed the matter at length with our attorneys and they assure me there’s no such expectation in a public place when someone sitting two feet away might overhear you.”
“But surreptitious microphones in a public place—”
When Kelly got on her high horse it wasn’t easy to get her to dismount. Claudia broke in before a serious debate about privacy law took them completely off the track. “Why don’t you tell us what it was that you overheard, Mr. Stedman, that made you want to talk to us?”
Harold Stedman nodded. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands clasped under his bearded chin. Claudia noticed that he wore no ring, and she remembered Erin telling them that his wife had died.
“I believe you said something about one of the confessions being untruthful,” Stedman said. “You seemed very sure. Something about the handwriting. . . .”
“She’s one of the world’s foremost handwriting experts,” Kelly offered.
Stedman’s dark brows lifted, looking like two dark boomerangs above his eyes. He turned an appraising glance on Claudia. She didn’t bother with false modesty. Stedman said, “Is that so? Then please tell me what is it about handwriting that would indicate that someone is being untruthful?”
“If the person feels guilty about what they’re writing, there are often markers that might show a handwriting analyst where he’s lying.”
“I see.” His full lips pursed again as he seemed to consider what to do with this information. He sat back on his folding chair and smoothed his tie with the flat of his hand. “Interesting.”
Claudia wanted to know what was going on behind those eyes, but they seemed impenetrable. “What is it that interests you about it?” she asked.
He leaned forward. “May we speak confidentially?”
“You mean without hidden microphones recording our conversations?” Kelly put in.
Claudia nudged her foot under the table. “Please tell us; I’d like to know.”
Harold Stedman hesitated, glancing around as if concerned that someone might be listening in right now. Satisfying himself that no one was within earshot, he said, “I have reason to think that outsiders may have infiltrated our home base—we call it the Ark. If I were to show you some handwritten documents, would you be able to tell me if they were lying about their motives for joining us?”
Now it was Claudia’s turn to hesitate, not at all sure that she wanted to involve herself with him. “It might be possible. As I said, it depends on whether the writer feels any guilt about what they’re writing. For example, if someone were a sociopath, that would mean by definition that they have no conscience, so their handwriting would probably look more or less normal. It’s important to understand that handwriting shows potential, but there’s no way to predict whether the writer will ever act on that potential. That would depend on a lot of other factors all coming together at the right time. There simply are no guarantees.”
“I understand. But from what you’ve said, it sounds to me as if this could be helpful for my needs. I would be interested in hiring you.”
Claudia felt a tingle of surprise. She had not expected an offer of a work assignment
to come out of attending the Temple of Brighter Light rally. They couldn’t have planned it better if they’d tried. Working for Harold Stedman might open a way to get some insider information about Rodney Powers.
“Write something,” Kelly urged Stedman. “Let Claudia see your handwriting. She can tell you about yourself. That way you’ll know whether she’s any good at it.”
Excellent idea. Most of the time, Claudia refused to do on-the-spot analysis and Kelly knew it. But obtaining a sample of Stedman’s handwriting would help her gauge whether she could trust him to tell the truth. She glanced over at him, waiting to see whether he would refuse, but he was nodding, giving no indication that he was afraid she might see something he wanted to hide.
“Fine, fine. Have you got something to write on?”
Claudia rooted around in her purse and produced a pen and spiral notebook. Opening to a blank page, she pushed it across the table. “Just a sentence or two and a signature will do for now. It doesn’t matter what you write about.”
Stedman sat very still for about thirty seconds, holding the pen in his left hand, hovering above the notebook as he thought about it. Then he began to write, swiftly covering the small page with small, oddly uneven writing.
As she watched, Claudia began to wonder whether he suffered from some physiological ailment that was affecting the writing rhythm. Handwriting sometimes revealed the location of illnesses in the body, though not specific diagnoses. The jerky quality of the writing trail suggested to her that he might have a neurological problem.
When he handed her the paper she scanned the writing he had produced, curious to see how her personal perceptions of him stacked up against what his handwriting might reveal about his personality. She did not need to read the text of what he had written in order to form an opinion. The way he had arranged the writing on the paper, the letter forms he had chosen, and the writing movement were the important keys: Thready writing, indefinite, barely legible letterforms. A tall personal pronoun I, wide loops on the letter d. She felt the back of the paper. No pen pressure to speak of. Combined with the thready forms, the lack of pressure told her that the TBL guru was operating at a level of emotional tension that was higher than was good for him.